If you clean it up, get analytical, all the subtle joy and emotion you felt in the first place goes flying out the window. ~ Andrew Wyeth
there it is, what you gave me, when you came, when you left, when you reappeared. i believe in no home other than your hand, the way you bend your arm so that mine is in yours is there, for your lips to graze. that is home. walls and walls and floors and more walls, is this it or is it the way we tend to the soil, how we know how to be, how you give me everything that is in your mind so that i may ramble on about how, what, if, perhaps. mountains be damned, doors be opened, life be lived. those particulars of your smile, skin, smell, wry glances and quiet commentaries, these are words they’ve never been able to write. not all words need be inflamed by agony – let mine show inspiration and those furtive dreams being exposed by light and rain and elements of then. sweetness, i fall upon sweetness in forests and open windows and the calm of the squish-squish in mud marked by today. how else could i see tomorrow? thank you – for the relevance and the irrelevance, for the mumbling and jumbling and the place i can keep warm and dry and so intently ME. thank you, for letting me shelter you, for seeing down winding roads and yet looking softly at my shadows. you see, it is more than relief, it is a settling of great belief that i am deserving, we are worthy, you are the second whole rather than the missing half. breathing. exhaling. good.